Dysfunctional
by FFcrazy15
Summary: ... Because apart, that's what they are. But together, they might just make it through alive, if perhaps not entirely sane. ; P  Hayffie one-shots!
1. Chapter 1 Advice

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

"This isn't right!" he says angrily. "This has to stop!"

He is going to get himself killed, stupid boy.

They gave him a few year's respite, before they made him a mentor. He's twenty-two now, only two years older than me. Age aside, he has no experience in what I like to call the game-within-the-Games; I can tell by the way he's shooting his mouth off.

I flounce my way over, for all the world appearing bright and bubbly. "Hey there, victor," I say, batting my eyes. He blinks. "'Scuse me, gents, may I have a private word with him?"

They all agree courteously, capitol men that they are. I pull him over to the side, where no one is watching or listening.

"Miss, I think there's been a mistake-"

"Do you have a death wish or something?" I snap.

He blinks, taken aback. "Huh?"

"Speaking out against the Capitol like that? Are you _crazy?_ That, victor, is how you get yourself _killed!_"

He scowls. "You stupid woman, don't you understand what this is? This is murder of innocent kids! I was almost one of them! You pathetic capitol lackey-"

"Do you think you're safe now that you're out of the arena?" I demand. "You're such a fool. When your name was drawn in the reaping, you were committed to this for life, regardless of what you _think_ you went through in the arena."

"And what would you know about it, you preppy little princess?" he shoots back. "You probably watch the Games at home, thinking it all some exciting, fun time, you precious, stupid little-"

That's when I slam him into the wall with my bare hands. "Don't you _ever_," I hiss, and I'm glad to see he's truly scared, "Insinuate I think these games are right. I hate them. I hate them as much as you do. I play my part because I haven't got a choice, do you understand me?"

"What are you-"

"I'm in this to get as many tributes as I can out alive. I don't _care_ what district I'm working for; I will do everything in my power to make sure one of my tributes is victorious. And unless you want to end up dead, take it from someone who's been stuck in this stuffy, superficial city since the day she was born: your life is at stake with every move you make. These are the real dangers of the games. This light, fluffy little world of champagne and cushions is deadlier than any arena you can imagine. Everything you say, everything you do is suspect."

He knocks my hands away. "What do you suggest I do then, huh?" he demands. "I can't get out. I can't pretend it's not happening. What should I do?"

"You want my advice?" I say. "Fine. Here it is: put on a big, cheery smile, pretend you love all of this, and, no matter what, _never_ say anything that could be held against you. Keep your head down and your happy face on, and you'll survive. Either that, or go get yourself good and drunk. No one blames a drunk man."

"I think I'd prefer the second to the first," he says sarcastically.

My eyes narrow. "The coward's path if there ever was one, not that I can blame you." I turn to go.

"Wait," he says from behind me. I glance over my shoulder.

"Yes?"

"What's your name?"

I hesitate for a second, and then decide that he'll learn it soon enough, anyway. "Effie," I say finally. "Effie Trinket."

"Haymitch Abernathy. Nice to meet you."

I regard him coolly, and then nod. "Don't forget what I said, Mr. Abernathy: keeping yourself alive is first priority here. If you're dead, you can't help anyone." And with that, I turn and walk away.


	2. Chapter 2 Deal

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I don't make any money off of this.

I wanted him to win.

I don't really know _why,_ mind you. He was a District 12 boy. I was a Capitol girl. I was supposed to root for the careers, the ones closest to us, the rich ones, the better-off ones. Because frankly, it was disgraceful when a tribute from an outlying district won.

But I liked him. The way he could disguise himself. The way he handled a knife like it was second-nature. The way he outsmarted everyone, escaping from what was sure to be a bloodbath when three career boys found him.

I also rather liked it when he gave one of the hidden cameras the birdie. The rest of my family didn't, of course- "Impudent little Twelve!"- but I thought it was brave. Dashing. Daring.

I wondered what it would be like, to be in the Games. Capitol children were exempt, of course. But it was all so exciting, wasn't it?

I wouldn't last a second in the arena; I knew that. But still…

I liked his flax-golden hair. His stormy blue eyes, full of power. His tall, thin build, his wits, his laugh.

And he won. The boy from District Twelve won.

…Didn't he?

I hate it when he drinks. Really, I do. It's tasteless, horridly so. And it makes him into someone I barely know.

I wonder if there's anything I can do. He's gotten better now, since the Rebellion is over. Since I saw that there was nothing left of the Capitol, and returned…

…Well, here. In District 12 again, the place I used to travel to every year for the Reaping, and I hated every minute of it. The dirtiness of the small mining town. The griminess.

Now, I understand what I fool I was, to think these people had any choice but to be that way. What they must've thought of me… A tittering Capitol lapdog, always condescending, blindly believing the Games to be fun, exciting, thrilling- in short, anything but a death sentence. Pathetic.

I'm one of them now. I won't deny it, it was hard to get used to, at first. But I like it, the way the sun rises clean each morning, how the birds sing real songs, how the Girl on Fire greets me in the afternoons as she brings in her kill for me to buy and sell, here in one of the few buildings that survived the bombing. It's… home.

Who would've thought it, really? Effie Trinket, butcher. No makeup. No special hair. No fancy dress. But it makes sense, I suppose, what with my not being sick at the sight of blood and a tendency to want everything sterile when I'm working. The people of District Twelve- those who are still alive, anyway- are getting the healthiest meat they've had in years.

I tie my hair back into a short braid. It was the first thing they did to me, before they tortured me. As if they thought cutting my hair would make me break. It didn't, of course. I didn't break, not ever.

Perhaps I really would've done well in the Games.

Even this many months later, it's strange to see its normal color, after so many years of having it various hues of darks, neons, and eventually white. Now, it's ash-blond, streaked gray with age. I was self-conscious about it at first, but Katniss assured me it looked better this way.

I put on a dark blue calico dress (it's easy to get bloodstains out of), and tie the once-white, now a stained, pale tan apron around me. Everything below my shoulders isn't covered, revealing ugly, knotted scars. If there was anything my days in prison taught me, it was that beauty isn't the only thing a woman holds. Let the people look. Let them see what the society I foolishly trusted did to me. I'm proud of the scars, former-Capitol-lapdog or not. It's the only thing I'm grateful for about the tortures they put me through; it knocked some sense into me.

I saw… so many people die. Horribly. I still have these- these awful, awful nightmares about it. But I know I'm one of the lucky ones. That my surviving while everyone else died wasn't just chance or dumb luck. There's a purpose for me here.

I head downstairs to the butcher shop. Katniss arrives just as I'm setting up for the day. "Little early, aren't you?" I say, tutting, though of course I don't mean it.

"I got lucky," she answers.

She hands me the carcass of a very small deer, freshly killed, and I examine it before saying, "I'll give you thirty coins for it."

"Sixty," Katniss says instantly.

We haggle over the price for a while, before we eventually agree on forty-five. I pay her, and then take out my carving knife as she leaves, looking at the carcass.

It'll have to be skinned first, obviously, but it's very fresh- not even twenty minutes dead, I'd suppose- and it'll go for a good price, especially if I can get it sold today. I'll have to string it up outside to skin it, though, which is always a pain.

I'm just about to bring it outside when he comes in.

"Hey, sweetheart," Haymitch says, and he's grinning at me in the way that I know he's been hitting the bottle early today.

"'Sweetheart' yourself," I say tartly. "You know what I said about drinking being bad for your health."

"Aw, health. What do I care? I'll be dead before it matters anyway."

"Don't you talk like that!" I say sharply, waving my knife at him. "Have some pride in yourself; of all people, _you're_ lucky to be alive, for multiple reasons"

He holds his hands up in defense. "A'right, a'right, I get the message. Don't mess with the butcher lady."

"Oh, shove it. Help me string up this deer, won't you?"

"Yeah, jus' give me a second. Have you got any whisky?"

"No, I don't, and if I did, I wouldn't give you any either," I answered. "I don't support your drinking habit; in my opinion, it's positively awful."

"Yeah, yeah." He laughs. "You and your opinions."

I scowl at him. "You're so drunk. I'm surprised you haven't fallen over yet."

"Actually, I'm stone-cold sober today, Effie."

"And I'm the deer."

He shrugs. "Hey, don't believe me. That's your choice."

I scoff and turn back to the carcass resigned to the fact that he's probably not going to help me.

"I'll tell you what, Effie," he drawls. "I'll make you a deal. I'll stop drinking-

I roll my eyes. _Oh, I'm sure you will._

"-If you'll marry me."

I freeze, then slowly turn back to him. "I- you- pardon?"

"I'll quit if you'll marry me," he says again, and I can tell by the way his eyes are dead focused and his words aren't slurred that not only is he sober, he hasn't touched a drop for days, something he hasn't done in twenty years. "Actually, I'll quit _before_ you marry me, if you will. I'll go one-hundred-percent sober- 'course, you'd have to agree first."

I stutter a few times, and then manage to get my voice. "If you're joking with me, Haymitch, I swear I'll take this knife and run you through!"

"I'm not joking, Effie. I want you to marry me. Is that so hard understand?" He walks forward, takes my cheek in his warm, strong hand. "So whaddaya say? You and me? Think about it: we'd be hopelessly dysfunctional, but a right good party, eh?"

I can barely speak, but eventually, I get out, "I- I accept. I most certainly accept."

Cheers ring out from behind me, and I whip my head around so fast it hurts. Katniss and Peeta are looking through the window, smirking in at us.

"Why you-!" I manage to get out, before they start laughing. Peeta is wolf whistling.

I wave the knife at them. "Leave me be! Shoo! Go on!"

They do, and I sigh. Haymitch grins. "Kids," he says.

"Yes," I agree, "Kids. Let's never have them."

He chortles. "I hate to break it to ya, sweetheart, but out here it's hit-and-miss."

My cheeks go red as I realize what he's talking about, and it's without rogue, too. "Haymitch!" I hiss.

"It's true."

"Yes, but- Oh, go on, would you? I have work to do!"

"Yeah, yeah. See you later, Mrs. Abernathy." He grins at me and leaves, and- astounding as it may be- I hear whistling as he walks away.

I turn around, dazed, and see the deer. He never did help me string it up.

I'm just preparing to take it outside when it hits me:

_I'm going to be marrying Haymitch. What a ride this will be._


	3. Chapter 3 Descent

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

They think I'm…

Fragile.

Soft.

Shallow.

They think they can break me.

Is it wrong for me to be happy about that?

They'll try to torture me, and they- poor them. They'll get _nothing_ from me.

Years of watching the Hunger Games have made me… less weak. Not strong, perhaps, but certainly not weak. I won't give them anything. I don't care what they do to me; they won't get a word out of me. There is _nothing_ I wouldn't go through to protect my tributes and their mentor, the only real friends I've ever had.

I wonder how their faces will look, when they finally realize they'll just have to kill me. Will they be shocked? Angry? Maybe a little scared?

I hope so. I really do. It's their own faults, for thinking they could make Effie Trinket talk.

**HG**

It hurts.

I didn't think it would be that hard. That painful.

They went old school on me, working on me with knives and such. And it- oh, God. I didn't know pain could be like that. That- that awful-

No matter. I didn't break. I won't, not ever.

**HG**

They've gotten better at this.

I can see it in their eyes, the way they come closer and closer to finding the thing that'll make me finally snap.

But they won't. They can't. He's already long gone, and they can't catch him. Nobody ever could.

**HG**

They used water today. Almost died. Suffocation- strangling- asphyxiation-

Should've thought harder, though. Couldn't talk anyway, the fools. Not with my mouth in the water.

**HG**

Fire today. Burnt hand. Can't think right. Didn't talk. Didn't talk. Didn't talk.

**HG**

They're gone. My friends. Killed them. In front of me.

Why didn't they kill me too?

**HG**

Katniss' song. Rue. How did it go?

Oh. Yes. I remember now. That melody… melody…

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass, a soft green pillow…_

**HG**

I won't talk. I won't. Won't. Won't. Won't.

**HG**

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow, a bed of grass…_

_ A bed of grass…_

_ A- a bed of grass…_

**HG**

Won't. Can't. Haymitch.

**HG**

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow…_

_ Deep in the meadow, under the willow…_

_ Deep in the meadow, under the willow, deep in the meadow, under the willow-_

**HG**

Won't.

**HG**

_Deep in the meadow._

**HG**

_ Deep in the meadow._

_ Haymitch._

**HG**

_Deep. Hide. Meadow. Safe. Warm. Hide._

_ Hide. Hide. Hide. Hide._

**HG**

_Safe. Warm. Haymitch._

**HG**

_ Haymitch._

**HG**

_ Safe._


	4. Chapter 4 Midnight Conversation

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I make no money off of this.

The phone rings, and he picks it up even in his half-asleep stupor. "Yeah?"

"Hello."

He's awake now, and he's also listening. "Eff? That you?"

"Yes, it's me."

"You're having dreams again." It's not a question.

Thousands of miles away, she nods and then, remembering he can't see her, says, "Yes."

"Jeez, Eff, I'm sorry…"

"It's alright."

Long silence.

"How are you doing?"

"Pretty good tonight."

"No dreams?" she asks.

"For the first time in forever, I think."

"That's good. How are the kids?"

"A'right. Yannow, they're getting married in June. I'm supposed to tell you you're invited."

"They know you talk to me?" she asks, surprised.

"Peeta found out and told Katniss. I'd say the whole district knows by now."

He hears her mumble, "Shit."

"Did I just hear the princess curse?" he says jokingly.

"No, you just heard _Effie Trinket_ curse at _you._"

"Me? What did I do?"

"You can't keep a secret, Haymitch." Her tone is teasing, though, and he grins.

"So you'll be here for the wedding?"

"It's not like I have much of a choice, is it? And of course I'll be there; I wouldn't miss it for the world.."

"Good." There's another long pause, before he asks, "Why'd you call, huh?"

She hesitates, and then answers, "I wanted someone to talk to."

"About?"

"Anything. It's… lonely here. Too quiet."

He can understand that. "How're things going up there with the rebuilding?"

"Pretty well, actually. Paylor's got us organized. She's quite the woman, you know that?"

"Yeah, I do." He takes a deep breath, and then says, "What was it this time, sweetheart?"

She winces. It always comes down to this. "Fire."

"Where?"

"All over."  
>She hears his sigh crackle across the line. "Damn…"<p>

"I- I'm so tired of this, Haymitch. The nightmares, the pain… I just want it to be over."

He feels fear clamp around his stomach, icy and awful. "Eff, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're about to do, don't do it."

"Haymitch, I'm lying in bed. I promise you, I'm not about to jump off the roof."

He lets out a sigh of relief. "Good. Good."

"Does… does it ever get better?"

It's an awful question, one he never knows how to answer. "Depends."

"On what?"

"On how you deal. If you drink, it just gets worse. If you get your ass out in the world and do something… it starts to heal, over time. But it doesn't ever completely go away."

"I wouldn't want it to."

He blinks at this, surprised. "Why?"

"Because I'm… different now. I don't want to be like I was again."

"Yeah. I guess."

"How are you feeling?"

He knows it's not a question of physical health. "Better some days than others."

"Are you off the bottle?"

"Yeah. Those kids've got me sober."

"Good for them." She pauses. "Good for you."

He chuckles. "Glad I have your approval."

She laughs, too. "I'll talk to you later, Haymitch."

"Hey, Eff, hold on."

"Yes?"

"I've got something I gotta tell you."

"What?"

"Marry me."

There's a long, long silence from her end of the line.

"Eff? You still there?"

"Physically."

Obviously she's not too shocked to be sarcastic. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

He waits, and when he hears nothing else, says, "So? What's your answer?"

"I just told you. Yes."

His heart starts to beat again. "You- you mean it? For real?"

"Do you think I'd lie about this?"

"Well-"

"Don't answer that. Of course I'll marry you, Haymitch. Not this very instant, mind."

"'Course not, Sweetheart." He laughs, relief flooding his body and making him feel dizzy. "I can't believe this."

She chuckles. "Goodnight, Haymitch."

"'Night, Sweetheart." He hangs up the phone, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot. "Damn… I'm getting married." Then, he starts to laugh again. "Damn, I'm getting married to _Effie Trinket!_" And, still chuckling at the irony of it all, he falls back asleep.

**HG**

"What do you think he's so happy about?" Peeta asks, looking at the man in the bed, who's smiling in his sleep.

"I have no idea," his fiancé replies. Katniss is studying him intently, trying to figure out what could've made the ex-drunk who still sleeps with a knife smile like he's just heard the best news in the world.

They stand there for a moment, thinking, before they suddenly come to the same conclusion. "You don't think-" Peeta starts.

"I absolutely think," Katniss says, grinning. "And I also think that we should get a picture of this."

"I'll get my drawing stuff," Peeta says, heading out the door. "You keep him that way."

"Will do." Both of them are smirking to themselves, thinking the exact same thing: double weddings are the _perfect_ time for payback.


	5. Chapter 5 To the Damned

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I don't make any money off of this.

He turns off the T.V., and the penthouse goes dark.

I see his silhouette lean back against the couch, and I guess he's going to sleep here tonight. So am I. It's tradition, after all: cry yourself to sleep with the only person you trust to see your real emotions.

"Haymitch?" I whisper in the dark, after what seems like hours. By this time, my face is stiff with dried tears.

"M-hm?"

"You alright?"

He snorts. "What do you think?"

There's a long moment of silence, before I say, "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I just- I don't understand _why_," I mumble, feeling tears prick at my eyes. "Why do we have to do this? Why do we have to throw these kids to the wolves?"

"Because it's what the Capitol wants."

"Well, that's a fucked-up reason."

He laughs, probably at my cursing, since I don't often use profanity. It's not a good habit. "You're telling me, Sweetheart."

"Those poor kids. I mean, what they have to go through, even if they become victors-"

"And what would you know about it, huh?" he demands. "What would you know about being in that arena? You've never had to kill anyone. You're no murderer."

"You think I've never killed?" I say bitterly.

"No. I think you've sat on your ass and watched kids murder each other."

"Well, you're wrong, Haymitch Abernathy," I say. "I won't sit here and debate victim stats with you, but in all honesty, there's only one murderer in this room."

"Me."

"No. You did what you had to out of self-defense. I pull names from a pretty crystal ball and condemn innocent children to death. I slaughter them, just as much as the kid who holds the knife. Maybe even more so."

He draws a sharp breath at that. "Eff, don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell the truth, because a secret camera might pick it up? Don't act like I don't know what I'm doing every year?" I shake my head. "Let them hear the truth. Let them kill me. I just- I don't care anymore."

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" I stare up at the dark ceiling, orange-peach splinters of light coming in from the windows off the city glow. "I don't know anymore, Haymitch. These children, they don't deserve to die. I do. So why aren't I dead yet?"

"Same reason I'm not," he grunts. "We're lucky."

I laugh at that. "Or damned."

"Or damned," he agrees.

We sit in silence for a long time, before I say, "Haymitch? Do you think- do you think things will ever get better?"

He sighs. "You want my honest opinion, Sweetheart?"

"Yes, I do."

"No. I think they're going to get worse and worse, and then we'll die. Probably go to Hell, too."

I consider this for a second, and then say, "You have that bottle with?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"How much is left?"

"It's half-full."

"Good." I take my glass from earlier and hold it out for him to fill. He pours the liquor in, dark blood-red, and then does the same for his own.

"I propose a toast," I say, and he chuckles bitterly.

"A toast to what, Sweetheart?"

I think for a moment, and then say, "A toast to the damned."

"To the damned," he agrees, chiming the crystal to mine, and we both drink the entire glass in one go.

Because really, did we ever expect to be anything else?


End file.
